


Enough to Go Around

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: ABO Dark!verse [6]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dark!verse abo, Implied Mpreg, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Incest, M/M, Parenthood, Possessive Behavior, Post Mpreg, Referenced Mpreg, Referenced Parent/Child Incest, Sibling Incest, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-12 23:11:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13557591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: "Are you jealous?"





	Enough to Go Around

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the ABO dark!verse.

Stan is knocked out on the unyielding but clean motel bed. His hair is wild around his head, too tired to even take a shower and not quite confident enough to leave Ford alone with the baby.

Ford looks over the two of them, Stan snoring softly and drooling thin saliva onto his pillow while the baby, only a few months old now, is sleeping, bundled tightly to keep him from flailing his way over the dangerous edge of the bed. Of course, Stan himself still poses a danger to the child. (And Ford remembers the tragic story of an endangered tiger rolling over in the night and suffocating her newborn cubs.) Ford reaches out to brush the sweat filthy, stringy strands of hair away fro Stan’s forehead. As always, Stan flinches and mumbles before his face smooths out again. The baby makes a small sound and Ford looks at it, face blank. It is a mystery to Ford that anyone should be charmed by an infant, especially this incestuous abomination that is the manifestation of their father’s perversions. (Ford remembers the tiger and for a dark moment he almost wills Stan to turn. But he would break under Stan’s grief. He loves his brother too much.)

Ford takes himself away from the baby, and Stan, and his own morbid thoughts. He quietly pulls the thread bare chair from under the desk and sits, contemplating the phone. He had promised their mother he would call. She had been so upset when Stan said he was going with Ford across the country; moreso when Stan said he was taking the baby. Ma understood, of course, she was a mother. But Filbrick had been furious and raged at all of them. The boys didn’t have the money, the house, the experience. Ma had fought him back and it never became a screaming match, thought Ma tried. But, in the end, Stan packs up all of the baby’s things and Ford is grateful that he is such a light traveler. Stan, somehow, manages to fit everything he needs into a small, red duffle bag. 

He dials the number; they are close enough to home that the motel shouldn’t fuss about the bill. It rings and Ford knows it’s late, but his mother works mostly at night.

“Pines residence, what ya want?” Ma drawls, bored, irritated. Homey.

“Hi, Ma,” Ford greets her softly, unwilling to raise his voice. He hears his mother mutter something that might be a swear as she scrambles.

“Stanford, sweetie, is that you? Oh, good, I been worried sick!”

“Ma, it's been two days,” Ford smiles fondly.

“Hush, a mama’s allowed to fuss. Speakin’ of,” Ford hears the rustle of his mother settling in for the long tall she will not get. “How's Stanley? And little Shermie?”

“Tired,” he says, honestly as he looks back over his shoulder at his boys, because the child is his now, he supposes. 

“Poor things,” Ma makes a small sound sympathy. Ford hears a distant rumble and scowls. “Oh, your father wants to talk to you.” Ford wants to stop her but the phone has already changed hands.

“Stanford.” Filbrick grunts and Ford leans loose and lethal into the chair.

“Filbrick,” he replies.

“Show me some respect, boy.” His father growls.

“Unlikely,” Ford snorts. 

“You’re a moron if you think you can keep them.” Filbrick and he was never one to mince words. Ford wasn’t either.

“Are you jealous?” He can’t keep the smirk from his voice. “The baby’s doing well, by the way. Happy.” Filbrick snarls, as ineffective as a dog on a chain. And Ford is delighting in dangling the baby just out of his reach.   
“You won’t be able to keep him.”

“Maybe,” Ford shrugs. “But he’s mine. They both are.” He can feel Filbrick’s rage through the phone, can almost see the man’s large hands squeeze the phone until it creaks. It’s wonderful.

“Listen here, you little freak,” Filbrick hisses. “When I get my hands on you and your brother--”

“I’ll tell Ma what you did.” Ford says easily.

“No one will believe you or your shithead of a brother,” Filbrick scoffs.

“They’ll believe science,” Ford says, hard and sure. But, he wouldn’t do that to Stan. Not unless he had to. “Good night, Filbrick. Tell my mother I love her.”

“You little bastard--” Ford clicks the phone to the cradle and takes a moment to breathe, to push aside the simmering rage. He would destroy his father one day. But not yet. He could wait. He could be patient.

“Ford?” Ford turns to see a sleepy, bleary Stan peaking at him, still tucked firmly under the covers. His head is disheveled and there is a crease on his face that Ford can see by the thin street light that filters into through the window. He feels a swell of fondness, of love, of possession. “Y’okay?” Stan yawns, leans on an elbow to check on his baby, brows dressing with worry at the child’s stillness, his quiet breathing. Stan worries gently at the bundle, smoothing creases and running his thick knuckles over the baby’s downy hair. Stan looks, in this moment, impossibly soft; like something precious that should be cherished. Ford smiles to himself at that ludicrous thought, that his brother is something to be coddled. Still.

“Just checking in with Ma,” he murmurs and goes to sit next to his brother on the double bed that is too narrow for two men and a baby. Stan hums as Ford reaches out to smooth his hair back from his face. It's greasy, pimples starting to bloom in rosy pinks and angrier reds along his hairline. Stan’s scratches some of them into bleeding and scabbing. It's makes him look young and unkempt. Ford isn't quite why he lives his scruffy brother so much.

“How she doin’?” Stan asks around a yawn, carefully pulling away to not disturb the baby. Ford pulls his hand away.

“She's good. Worried, of course, but fine.”

“...and Pops?” Stan squares his jaw, fists clenching in the sheets. He still doesn't understand that Ford won't let Filbrick anywhere near Stan again. Or the baby, but that's another matter. Ford laughs. Stan shushed him. “Shermie!” He hisses. Ford scoffs but grabs his brother’s hand, index finger raised against his lips; the universal sign for silence. “Ford!” Stan growls again, rough voice unsuited for quiet, cracking and rising. 

“Sh.” Ford kisses the side of Stan’s curled hand. Stan stiffens, doesn't move. Ford hates this defensive silliness; the instincts of a rabbit are ill suited to his clever fox of a brother. It's makes a minute and primal part of him scream to look over his shoulder, his primitive brain desperate to identify the threat. Ford knows, of course,  that the threat has long since passed. But Stan has no such rational. “Filbrick is still furious,” Ford whispers, his exhales hot on his brother’s wrist, each breathe a small, condensed cloud of invisible moisture. “And also powerless.” Ford hums, lips just a shade of damp against the pale, thin wrist of his brother’s arm. Stan doesn't move, doesn't respond at all to that declaration. Ford sucks a fold of flesh between his tongue and teeth. It is a gentle suckling of the skin; one he is pleased to humor. 

“Ford.” Stan whispers. It is quiet, almost sad. Ford pauses, tongue’s pressure increasing to hold the skin in place, mouth too slack for suction. Ford loosens his jaw and teeth and tongue. He pulls back, lets the lurid string of saliva tie them together; visible here is the bond Ford has always had with his brother. Ford imagines that suspended in that filthy strand of mucus and enzymes and water is the history of the Pines twin. The length it stretches is how far he will go for his brother and how far his brother will go for him. It pulls like the salt water taffy a shallow, stupid principle threatened his brother with a lifetime ago. Ford is loathe to snap the glistening thread between them, but it is either him or Stan. 

Ford snaps it with a flick and twirl of his tongue, but the carefully spun magic of the moment is passed and Ford only has a spat of cool saliva on his chin and Stan’s red, nervous, shamed face. 

“I won't let him near you.” Ford whispers. Stan hisses at him, pushes at his chest and Ford finds himself standing, unceremoniously pushed from the bed. He is about to ask, demand what Stan thinks he is doing, when Stan glares at him, hard and lethal and so much like their mother. His face in the faded light is washed out and pale but even so the muted threat of his eyes is enough to force Ford to step back. Stan checks over his son once more before carefully extracting himself from the bed.

“Bathroom,” Stan snaps at him and shoves past, shoulders as hard and broad as ever, baby fat and wide hips be damned. 

“Stanley--” Ford starts,  is prepared to finish as he follows his brother , but Stan turns the moment the bathroom door is shut with eyes like a Fury. 

“Don't.” He snaps, and the hard ‘tuh’ of the ‘t’ and the click of his teeth are near simultaneous. Ford startles, wrong footed and unsure. 

“Stan--” He tries again, softer, beseeching.

“No, Ford, fuck.” Stan starts, stops, snarls. Ford watches, back to the bathroom door. Stan paces the two feet and yanks at his hair. “You!” He starts again and then snarls. Ford waits. Finally: “You remember the first time I socked Crampelter in the mouth?”

Ford snorts. 

“How could I forget?” And Ford does remember. 

He remembers the funny, red-jelly of the bloody tooth that fell to the sand after one to many of Crampelter's remarks. He remembers the scream,  somehow terrifyingly loud but still the squeaking of a spoiled child, cupping his swelling jaw as red and pink striped spit dripped from his mouth. The blonde boy with a body like uncooked dough, pale and soft, had whimpered like a lap dog, whining and slavering. Stan had been little better, still standing. The blood on Stan hasn't been his, or Crampelter's. It was Ford's head that had fallen against the hull of the boat, that had echoed with laughter and the bright sparks of pain that burst and simmered. Ford recalls hearing the shouting and jeering. He hears the wet-meat sound of a hit and he stands. He knows he can not do much but he also knows that he is a mess of blood and rage and his brother is hurt.

Now, Ford remembers and frowns.

“You pitched a fit,” Stan says, face slacking into a grim smile. 

“It was reckless,” Ford agrees carefully. 

“So’s fuckin’ with Pops.” Stan grunts and runs a finger through his hair again. 

“Filbrick--” Ford scowls, ready to remind Stan. Again, that Ford is here to protect him.

“Is a dick,” Stan drawls. “But yer acting like a dick, too.”

“Beg your pardon?” Ford growls, eyes narrowing and furious. 

“Don't try that stupid alpha voice, Sixer.” Stan gives Ford a withering look and Ford frowns.

“I wasn't--”

“Ya were. Anyway, shut up. I ain't done.” Stan chews over his words as Ford bites his tongue.  He becomes more aware of the bathroom, it's cramped confines and stained grout. The way their breathing, both labored with restrained emotion, echoes softly.  “I can take care of myself, Ford.” Stan finally says and Ford resists the urge to remind Stan that, no, he couldn't. That Stan had let Filbrick use him and Stan carried his seed and then birthed his child and even now is cowed by fear. Ford thinks this but does not say it.

“Still,” Ford starts and does not scowl when Stan rolls his eyes. “I worry, Stan. I love you.” Ford says, quietly and honestly. Stan softens,  could never remain stoic in the face of his brother’s vulnerability. 

“Ah, ya shmoopy bastard, come ‘ere.” Stan pulls Ford to his chest in a tight hug. Ford is disappointed it is not a kiss. But he also knows that Stan is still shy of anything too sexual. “You ain't gotta be a tough guy, Ford.” Stan murmurs. Ford finds that, somehow, he relaxes and hugs his brother back. 

Then the damn baby starts to cry. Stan groans into Ford's neck, enticing and frustrated. 

“Swear, that kid,” Stan huffs, fond but tired as he leaves to check the baby. Ford huffs and follows to find Stan on the bed, rocking together with the child and pressing soft kisses to his hair.

“You don't kiss me like that,” Ford grouses as he takes a seat next to his brother, leaning into his side. Stan snorts as the baby starts to hiccup and quiet.

“Ya jealous?” Stan smirks at him,  just as charming, roguish. 

“Maybe,” he admits and Stan leans over to peck his face, once. Chaste. Ford grins anyway.

“Go ta bed, nerd. Yer drivin’ tomorrow.”

Ford closes his eyes and hums.


End file.
